Choosing
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Post-coconuts conversation between the two halves of Captain Swan...about names, destinies, and choices. T for language and basically everything that comes out of Hook's mouth. Angst, drama, romance, and a dash of humor.


**A/N: A one-shot involving several little bits of Captain Swan feels that I've been inspired lately. Basically, this is the rest of the coconuts scene—****_which is what I wanted to see but then the camera panned away and the episode ended _*****shakes fist*. Anyway, I've been envisioning a pre-kiss, pre-confession conversation between my OTP and thought I'd share the results. Enjoy, and please, for the love of Captain Swan, review. ;)**

"Relax, Swan."

"I am relaxed."

"You couldn't be less so." He practically tosses her a skeptical eyebrow-lift. "Come now, you could at least return the favor I've just done you."

His tone insinuates, as usual, that she owes him—who knows…a passionate kiss, or something—and for a moment she almost thinks that she wants that and—_for the love of God. _"And what favor would _that_ be?"

"Sharing coconuts," he responds, feigning hurt (but it's not like she hasn't seen the mischievous look in his too-blue eyes). "It's not something I'd do with just _anyone._"

"God, Hook. You could find some sort of come-on in a phonebook."

She almost can't help the smile that's creeping up her lips at the confusion that flashes suddenly across his perpetually self-assured features. "A what?"

"Never mind." The momentary brightness that his indefatigable banter has granted her dissipates once more, leaving her sucking in a breath to fill what feels like a crushing emptiness in her lungs. _How can you laugh…flirt…think of anything but Henry?_

"Swan?" His voice drops lower, but it's suddenly serious, and she can feel his gaze on her, searing her with the sincerity of his concern. He shouldn't look at her like that. _It can't end well for either of us._

"Yes?"

"I'll listen."

There's something so—generous in the words that it really stabs it her. Not _What's wrong_ or _tell me_—a prying question, or a well-meaning command…just a reminder that he's there.

_Try something new, darling. It's called trust._

"I'm not much of a talker," she says at last—at a loss for words _(but not for the reason he thinks)._

"It's natural, I suppose. Being tongue-tied around a dashing man. It's a fate many before you have suffered."

He broke the moment, but she was grateful for it—now, as always, he gives her a merciful way out. "I'll tie _your_ tongue if you're not careful," she retorts, and then scrunches her eyes shut in horror. She _really_ set herself for that one.

He smirks and leans closer, his lips parting _(and far, far too close to hers_). "Have at it."

_Is she _really_ thinking of kissing him?_

She turns her face away and hears him sigh—but how much is part of his act, and how much is real disappointment, she doesn't know. _(After all, she doesn't know whether or not what she's feeling is disappointment either)._

"You said you'd listen," she begins, after a pause. Somehow, the innuendoes almost just became as great a danger as speaking seriously. She doesn't need to end up liplocked with a pirate anymore than she is gridlocked with Pan at the moment.

"Aye."

"It's Henry," she murmurs. Even though Mary Margaret and David haven't been watching them (that much is obvious because her father hasn't stormed over to chaperone them yet), she speaks more softly, because in Neverland, who knows what's listening? "Every second that I think of anything else, I—I—feel like I'm betraying him. Like sitting here and…" she nearly says, _enjoying myself_, but thinks better of it, "…and not fighting for him is the most heartless thing I could be doing."

She sees the fingers of his good hand curl shut, and inexplicably wishes that they were closing around hers (_Emma, now is not the time_). "Emma, it's not—fighting is a long process. Battle's only one piece of it."

The simple words are somehow reassuring. After all, a man who sought revenge for three hundred years knows something about fighting _(and love, but she can't think of that now_). So she nods, and almost forces a smile, until she realizes that he doesn't expect her to, and wouldn't believe it if she did.

"Why Henry?" he asks suddenly, and then explains, "The name, I mean. Why did you name him Henry?"

He's trying to comfort her with a diversion, which still lets her focus on her son. He has no way of knowing, of course, that this particular question has an answer that only hurts her more. "I didn't name him," she answers, after a silence in her own mind that felt like an eternity. "Regina did."

Out of the corner of her eye (she can't bear to look at him full on just now), she sees him grimace slightly, regretting his intrusion. "I—"

She interrupts him, forging ahead. "I couldn't keep him, long enough—long enough to name him. I…" her breath catches in her throat, and she's _there_ again, trapped in a hospital bed not so much by handcuffs as by loneliness, and her baby's cries are mixed with her tears, and _no, she won't look at him—_because that way, someday she'll be able to tell him (_in her own mind, since it's not like they'll ever see each other again) _that she didn't reject him, that she never even saw his face, that she didn't ever know him _(because if she had, even for a moment, she could have never let him go)._

"What name would you have chosen?" His voice steadies her, pulling her back from a brink she didn't know she was standing on. "If you could have?"

The question makes her think for a moment, and the distraction of it ripples through her mind like a calming stream. She chews her lip half-unconsciously as she ponders it, and finds herself almost laughing (despite everything) when she hits upon the answer. "David. I would have named him David."

"Ah, fate," he remarks, quirking an eyebrow in her father's direction.

"Yeah. I guess." She flattens her hands against her knees. They're slightly sticky from coconut. She glances over towards Regina, who's still talking with the fairy (whose name she just can't bring herself to say seriously). "Not like I had a say, in the end."

"We don't always get to choose names, love," he says softly, and the gleam of his hook (_he didn't choose that_) is reflected by a hard, cynical glint in his eye. She doesn't like to see it, because it hurts him more than it hurts her. The look softens, and he half-smiles. "But we do get to choose our destinies."

There's something about the way he says that last word—entangling its syllables with his mellifluous (_damn-it-all-Emma-he's-a-pirate_) accent, making it seductive but hopeful, dangerous but adventurous, in a way that makes her heartbeat quicken.

"Seriously? Just when I thought this conversation couldn't get any weirder, you're pulling the choose-your-destiny crap?"

His smile widens, but she almost wishes it hadn't, because she can see the pain in it now. "I said we could choose them, darling. I didn't say that we're given what we desire."

Her mouth rounds in a soundless "_Oh_."

It's true, as she reflects on it—on her past, and his. As for the future—but she can't apply it to the future just now, not with him so close beside her. If she does, she might just get her hopes up—

_For what?_

_…I didn't say that we're given what we desire._

_Maybe he's thinking of the future too…of our—_

"Got any rum?" she jerks out, because—well, because she has to say something. _Again._

"Always," he returns, pulling out his flask and popping the cork _as he does_, with his mouth. _(Does he never lose an opportunity to show her how agile his lips are?_)

She takes it from him and gulps down a mouthful. The way it burns her throat is more soothing than it should be. It wakes her up from her ongoing reveries to begin to doubt herself, to believe that she might have revealed too much in the course of this conversation. "All this from a coconut, huh."

"I told you once that your silence was a challenge I was happy to take on, Swan," he teases. "Knew you'd come round eventually."

"Your turn," she counters. "This destiny you chose. What was it?"

He's suddenly transfixed by his hook—or at any rate, he won't look at her for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is light. "Perhaps I'm still choosing."

And then his eyes _do _meet hers, and she wishes they hadn't…and she's glad they did.


End file.
